


I Don't Mind Waiting

by kiirome



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, Lonely Derek, M/M, Sick Stiles, Stubborn Derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 12:45:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1094021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiirome/pseuds/kiirome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek hates being the little puppy always left alone at home while the rest of the pack is out having fun. Derek hates being the watchdog, hates being the one to always close the door, hates looking at their backs through the windows as they leave; Derek hates being alone. Being typical Derek however, means a strict "no" to voicing his opinions and feelings, so of course, he hasn't ever told anyone how much he dislikes the solitude. Nowhere in the foreseeable future does he plan to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Don't Mind Waiting

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a friend because she wrote me something nice and I had to return it. But...aha I don't write as well as her OTL. Sorry Annette :'D

**  
**Derek hates being the little puppy always left alone at home while the rest of the pack is out having fun. Derek hates being the watchdog, hates being the one to always close the door, hates looking at their backs through the windows as they leave; Derek hates being alone. Being typical Derek however, means a strict "no" to voicing his opinions and feelings, so of course, he hasn't ever told anyone how much he dislikes the solitude. Nowhere in the foreseeable future does he plan to.

 

 

 

 

To be realistic, he can't exactly imagine himself sitting amongst the pack in Stiles' rickety blue jeep during one of their little outings. He'd just be the awkward big guy wedged between too many bodies on an already tightly seated vehicle.

So Derek doesn't complain when he once again has to guard the house as the rest of the pack leave to go bowling. He simply does his mother hen routine. He makes sure that the doors are locked, and watches the pack leave through the window, never taking his eyes off of them until they are tiny, blurred figures in the distance. Once he is convinced that they have left safely, he cracks open a worn-out book from his library, and sits on his favorite sofa that’s situated closest to the front door as he proceeds yet again to reread another book on Norse mythology. By now he's memorized at least half the books he owns.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Saturdays are the typical pack outing days.

He knows that they'll be back at exactly 7:00 pm, as always. The pack is rowdy and loud, skipping up and down the stairs getting ready. They holler for each other to "Hurry up or we're leaving without you!", and other varieties of unintelligible empty threats, which never happen, because Stiles never starts the car until everyone is on board--that is, everyone except Derek. They start their routine, in what Stiles considers early in the morning, around 10 (God knows what they spend so much time doing), and by then Derek is already up and moving and has already gone for a run, so the noise doesn't bother him too much. He'd never admit it, but he sort of enjoys the life they bring into his house from time to time. By the time Derek finishes his morning shower, the pack are nearly done assembling, stationed at the door, and urged to quickly "move their furry werewolf butts" onto Stiles' Jeep.

As per usual, Erica and Isaac are both first to climb onto Stiles' jeep, claiming their seats. Boyd squishes in the backseat with Erica and Isaac. Lydia takes the passenger seat with a smug hum, leaving Jackson to squeeze in the back with the rest with an audible groan that he isn't so intent on hiding. No one knows why Jackson would rather be sandwiched in the middle of several over-obnoxiously loud werewolves in Stiles' jeep instead of riding in his Porsche, especially when he complains about the old jeep every single time. ("Shut up, Whittemore, if you insult my baby one more time, I'm going to kick you and your previously Kanima ass off in the middle of the road and you can damn well _run_ alongside us." That shuts him up for a substantial amount of time.) Scott and Allison are always left to settle in the trunk, feet dangling out in the back, but they don't seem to mind since they're always too busy sickly gazing into the depths of each other's souls to care about their surroundings.

Stiles is the last to get in.

Knowing for sure that they had all made it into the car safely, Derek longingly looks at them one more time before closing the blinds, locking the door, and breathing out a deep sigh as he pads over to the bookcase. He fingers the leather spines of the books until he finds the right one. Norse Mythology. Retrieving the book, he sits down at his usual spot, and casually flips through the book until he finds his page. A buzzing irritation hits him as he sits there for a while, pondering his choices, and decidedly snaps the book shut.

Derek glances up at the clock. The ticking hands indicate that the time is 10:34. Any second now, he'll hear the engines roar to life as the pack departs on their rusty vehicle. Any second now. He waits. And waits. And waits. Nothing.

And finally, something.

It’s slight and barely detectable, but Derek's ears perk up as he hears a small fit of coughing and the sound of the car door being opened and then slammed shut. The sound of crunching intensifies until it becomes a drumming thud to Derek's ears as feet meet gravel, trudging towards the house.

Derek is at the door working the locks before the knocks have a chance to resound.

The door gently swings open to a somewhat surprised Stiles, awkwardly shuffling his feet as he rubs a finger under his nose, sniffling.  
  
"Uh...wow, that was fast. That's werewolf hearing for you," Stiles mutters under his breath, his eyes darting around, suddenly finding the space between Derek's head and the door frame exceedingly interesting. "I'm sick. I can't go today." Stiles twiddles his thumbs, resenting the silence. "They kicked me out of the car." 

It seems that it's now that Derek's mental processor suddenly decides to stop working, because he can't quite decipher what Stiles is saying.

But before he can say anything, Stiles' mouth runs off again.

"Duuude. Do you mind letting me in? It's a little chilly out here, you know. Fucking _freezing_ , actually. My toes are about to freeze off. Stiles wants _in_." Stiles wails, rubbing his hands together to gather heat as he marches in place.

 _Oh._ It had failed to occur to him that Stiles is human, and unlike werewolves, Stiles was vulnerable to getting sick. In fact, it was hard to remember sometimes that it was winter, and during winter most people got sick. After looking a little closer, he can now see that Stile's ears are unmistakably red at the tips, his breath in short puffs of air against the cutting cold, and his teeth are chattering slightly. He feels a pang of guilt drill his chest for not realizing earlier--it was his job to ensure his pack mate's safety and wellbeing.   
  
Derek furrows his brows as he steps away from the door. "Right." 

Stiles hastily scurries in, glad to be shielded from the cold.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Derek has never taken care of anyone before. Werewolves _don't get_ sick. He doesn't know how he ends up being sent to the kitchen to make soup--"Chicken noodle soup, and I want it extra chunky! I'm the sick one here, so don't you dare back out. Hey, don't you growl at me, Sourwolf! I've got a picture of you in a frilly pink apron now, and I'm _not_ afraid to use it," Stiles had threatened, all smiles and teeth--how did Stiles even know that he knew a tidbit about cooking, anyway? And when was the last time he cooked for anyone?

With a sigh, he heaves out his mother's old recipe book, dropping it onto the counter like it carries the weight of the world in it--and being one of the last things she left him, it does. She used to make chicken noodle soup for him too--it was one of his favorites. Just thinking about his family still made his fingers tingle and well, thinking more about it would definitely result in a downward decline in his emotional stability. Shaking his reminiscing aside, he chops the last of the vegetables, slides them into the pot, and closes the lid to let the soup simmer. It's the first Saturday in a long, _long_ time he's spent not reading something that he's already read. Derek has never taken care of anyone before, but this doesn't feel too bad, he thinks. At least he's not alone.

Somewhere between the time he ladles soup into a bowl to the time he carries the bowl to the living room, Derek finds himself wondering why the void in his heart feels a little less empty--all he did was make soup. Before he has time to dwell on more puzzling matters, like why he hasn't ripped out Stiles' throat yet for making him his personal maid, a great big _crash_ in the living room brings his train of thought to an abrupt halt. 

If Stiles had broken his mother's favorite blue lamp, then sparks were going to fly this afternoon.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Because being Stiles means that your worst nightmares are his commands, Stiles has almost done all of the three things that Derek had desperately hoped Stiles would _not_ do as he races towards the living room, as fast as he physically can without spilling the bowl of soup in his hands: He finds Stiles wrapped in a cocoon of blankets, half on the couch and half on the floor, arms splayed out before him, reaching for shards of broken ceramic from a thankfully different lamp, his entire bookcase knocked over with Stiles barely managing to avoid being crushed, and great--that was definitely another hole in the wall. How he managed to do that, Derek has no idea at all.

"I was reaching for a book. It was an accident, I swear, I was--"  
  
"Stiles, shut up."

To his surprise, Stiles' name does not come out as a growl, as Derek imagined it to. It was odd in a way. The moment he saw the broken shards of ceramic and the bookcase barely avoiding injuring the boy, all urges to strangle him had promptly flown out the window, replaced by relief. In fact, Derek is not angry at all as he calmly steps over to the coffee table in front of the sofa, and places the soup onto the table. He leaves Stiles baffled, and still on the floor, as he heads towards the bathroom and searches through the cabinets before returning with a glass of water and a yellow bottle of pills. He places them next to the bowl of soup, drags the other half of Stiles' body back on the couch, and plops down into the space beside him.

"Oh my god." Stiles whispers, eyes dawning in horror. "Oh my god, you're going to drug me or poison me for breaking that lamp, aren't you--"  
  
"Eat," Derek says, eyes fixed on the television as he turns it on and switches to a random channel.  
  
"It's the hole in the wall, isn't it?" Stiles retorts with a huff.  
  
Stiles definitely needs a lesson on following instructions.

" _Eat_ ," Derek repeats, voice firm and demanding.

And this time, Stiles complies.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
It's only after Stiles has obediently taken his medicine, watched an hour of a stupid cooking show featuring a guy with a monotonous, sleep inducing voice, that Stiles finally gathers the courage to break the silence.

"That was...uh...really good." Stiles comments as he fidgets with his spoon and sets it back into the now empty bowl. He stares at the place where his toes should be, currently covered by a heavy mass of blankets. "I didn't know you knew how to cook. I was actually pushing my luck when I told you to make this," he gestures towards the bowl, "for me."

"Thanks," he replies. Derek's heart certainly does _not_ soar at his compliments.

It's been so long since he's gotten one.

He's far too busy swimming in the feeling of bliss to notice the hand that's been edging towards his--far too busy suppressing the bubbling warmth in his chest to notice when the sides of their hands are flush against one another, ever so gently touching--even when that hand finally slides onto his own, fingers slotting snug like a puzzle piece into the spaces between Derek's fingers.

If he does notice, Derek says nothing about it.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Another hour or so of horribly boring television (seriously, why are Saturday programs all so boring?) brings a yawn to Stiles' mouth, and he proceeds to stretch like a cat, but without all the poise.

"I'm sleepy," Stiles says, rubbing his eyes.

"Then sleep."

"Right. Good idea." His eyes are suddenly glued to the TV. "So..."

"So?"

"Mind if I use your shoulders?"

 "No." The words softly tumble out of his mouth before Derek has the time to think about his reply. It had come out so naturally, that he didn't even _have_ to think about it. "Go ahead."

The soft weight of Stile's head on his shoulder, Derek finds, is unexpectedly comforting.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Several minutes later, Derek finds himself sharing a blanket with Stiles, listening to him spout an endless stream of nonsense. The wall clock from across the room ticks in a mechanical rhythm; it is around 2:00 in the afternoon, and Stiles has yet to fall asleep.

"Derek."

"Go to sleep, Stiles."

"Just one question," he prods, absentmindedly tracing circles on the blanket.

"What?"

"Why do you always stare at us from the window with that look on your face?" He asks, turning to face Derek. "Like you don't want us to leave."

Derek's eyes turn somber for a moment, as he looks at Stiles in silence.

"Go to sleep, Stiles," Derek repeats, before turning his face back to the droning television, concentration obviously elsewhere.

"Okay. But before any of that, I'm going to say one thing."

"What?"

Stiles sits up, leans way into Derek's personal space, and continues, "Whatever I am about to do at the moment is purely the result of a lack of good judgment, severely impaired thinking," he plants a quick, chaste kiss on Derek's cheek, "and the horrible, brain wrecking side effects of nasty cold medicine, " he finishes, slipping back under the blanket and propping his head back on Derek's shoulder.

"Go to _sleep_ , Stiles," Derek croaks out, one last time.

"Hmm..." Stiles scoots closer, latching on to his arm and nuzzling into the crook of Derek's neck.  
  
"Thanks for today," Stiles says, smiling, and soon, all Derek can hear are the even breaths that tickle the side of his neck as Stiles falls into the deep lull of sleep.

He wonders what kind of face he's been making--more importantly, he thinks of the meaning behind the childishly innocent peck that Stiles had just given him. Suddenly it's a lot easier telling Stiles to sleep, than it is to do so himself.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It's around 6 in the afternoon when Derek wakes up to the shuffling of blankets as Stiles tries to quietly unlatch himself from Derek's arm. It takes two lazy blinks for Derek to finally register the events of the past few hours. One, cuddling in a sofa is definitely not what two people who do not like each other would do. Two, kissing (well, sort of) is not typically something that two people who did not like each other would do. And lastly, the warm, fulfilling feeling in his chest that he has been trying to will away has once again sprung to life, something that hasn't occurred since the little incident with Kate. Which, to his life shattering dismay (or delight), all bring him to one simple conclusion:  
  
He has fallen in love with Stiles, in the short span of seven and a half hours--sparked by chicken noodle soup. 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Snapping back to reality, Derek doesn't realize that he's staring Stiles in the face until he does it; nor does he realize that his arm is tightly holding onto Stile's midsection.

"Stiles."

"Uh...so...about that--" Stiles starts, face flushed. The room has dimmed considerably since the time they fell asleep, the only light coming from the subtle flash of the television as it murmurs in the background.

Derek clears his throat. "I--"

"We can totally forget that." Stiles says, turning away. "It was the drugs, I swear. You know, all the horrible stuff cold medicine can do to you. Like _severely_ impair your judgment. I just...wasn't in the right state of mind. Yup. Didn't know what I was doing. Absolutely none," he reassures.

But that's not reassuring at all.   
  
Derek feels a pang of disappointment, heavy in his chest as it sinks down to the bottom of his heart like a heavy anchor. Derek considers moving into a cave, or maybe living in a remote area in the mountains and pretending to be big foot and never having to see anyone ever again.

Instead, Derek nods, slowly, and then glues his eyes back to the TV. Derek had thought that maybe, just maybe, Stiles had liked him too. And maybe, he does. But of course, it's never that easy. And Derek isn't about find out, because Derek is a recluse, after all, and the clam of a shell he's built is shut far too tightly to pry open so easily now--even when it had been half open just seconds ago. "Okay," he says.

The next 15 minutes that pass are plain hell for Derek. Sitting in awkward silence, watching something on TV that he isn't even remotely interested in while trying not to look at Stiles may just as well be as hard as balancing a stack of plates on his head--while running.

"Uh..."

Derek turns to face Stiles, who is obviously feeling as uncomfortable as he is. "What?"

"Are we ever going to clean that?" Stiles asks, gesturing towards the mess on the floor that they had forgotten about.

"Oh."

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

After grabbing a dustpan and digging out the broom, Derek starts to clear the pieces of ceramic and debris from the floor while Stiles had retreated to the kitchen to make them both hot chocolate. "It's way too cold to live without hot chocolate!" he had argued, so Derek let him.

Derek isn't exactly too big on cleaning. It's always been the pack that's helped him around the house. As he sets the broom against the table to upright the bookcase, he accidentally knocks over the little bottle of pills. Thankfully, it was capped. Bending down to pick it up, Derek notices something on the label, and stares at it long and hard.

"Hey Derek, do you have marshmallows--"

"Stiles." He narrows his eyes at the bottle. "What is this?"

Stiles walks closer, staring confusingly at the bottle. "Pills?"

"No. I mean, what is _this_?" Derek all but shoves the bottle into Stiles' face, and jabs at the label.

"The label?"

"Yes, and?"

"The warnings and recommended dosages?" Stiles reluctantly offers.

" _And?_ "

Stiles clears his throat, and flickers his eyes to the ceiling. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"The _side effects_." Derek glares at Stiles, who is now fidgeting around on his feet.

"So...?"

"Nothing on here says that it impairs your mentality or judgment, Stiles."

"Ohhhh. Right. So, about those marshmallows--"

"Don't avoid my question, Stiles." Derek warns, gritting his teeth.

Stiles crosses his arms, and shifts his weight onto one leg. "It's really not a big deal, Derek. I'm just not that sick."

"You _lied_ to me? You knew exactly what you were doing?" The words are heavy on his tongue. Rejection, he could live with. But lies and deceit? It was just like déjà vu. He didn't think he _needed_ to listen to Stiles' heartbeat. He thought he could trust him without it.

"No...I _am_ sick. Just...less sick than I acted out to be. That's all." Stiles says, with a careless shrug.

"Was it fun _playing_ with me?" Derek finally grinds out, eyes starting to glow, and suddenly Stiles finds himself pushed against a wall--yet again.

"Hey, hey. You've got to take Stiles out on a date before you can start _playing_ with anything, you know." Stiles jokes, and then nervously swallows when the expression on Derek's face indicates that he is _not_ amused. The red eyes flash again. "Whoa, dude, calm down!"

Derek hadn't even noticed how out of check his anger was. Loosening his grip on Stile's hoodie, he backs away and glares at Stiles. "Get out."

"What?"

"I said, _get out_." Derek repeats, narrowing his eyes.

For a second, Stiles simply stands there, back still against the wall and mouth agape.

"Sure, I came off as a little awkward and maybe you got the wrong message, but seriously? Just like that?" Stiles finally retorts in astonishment.

Derek's face softens, and his expression quickly falls. His eyes turn solemn and empty, his eyebrows curve and come together just a bit as he furrows them, and his lips purse into a thin line. "Yes."

"Don't use that face!" Stiles snaps, throwing his arms up. "Stop looking like such a damn kicked puppy!" He takes a step closer. "You know exactly what I mean, Derek, " He says accusingly, answering the question before Derek can ask, and takes yet another step closer, "the look where you _don't want_ me to leave."

"I never--"

"Derek fucking Hale you _coward_!" Stiles hisses, taking another step forward so that he stands toe-to-toe with Derek, and grabs on to the collar of his leather jacket. "God, I didn't want it be like this." Derek takes a step back, and feels the crunch of ceramic under his shoes.

"Stiles, don't--"

"Oh no, you don't" Stiles says, tears rimming his eyes and threatening to pour, and  pushes Derek onto the couch with new found strength, "Not--" he breathes, pushing himself up from Derek's chest, "not until you've heard _everything_ I've got to say."

"Stiles--"

"No, _you_ shut up, Derek! And seriously, that's your favorite thing to say to me, isn't it?" Stiles huffs angrily, and continues, "Now listen up, I am in love with you--have _been_ in love with you--since the pool incident, since the kanima--since the first day I met you--and don't you _dare_ tell me now that you don't feel the same way. I've always been watching you--watching _me_ \--and the way your eyes would focus on--"

And Stiles is right, Derek realizes. Every time he watches the pack leave, his eyes would inescapably follow Stiles, and linger on him longer than he would anyone else. He knew better than anyone else that it wasn't out of duty, but out of love. And that, was enough to set him straight.

"Stiles, shut up." Derek growls, before pushing forward, smashing his lips against Stiles', feeling the tender softness as Stiles' mouth envelopes his, promptly stopping all thought processes, and the only thing Derek can process is that this feels right. Simply right. Stiles breaks the kiss, gasping for breath, eyes dazed and glossy, and looks at Derek.

"You kissed me." He whispers.

Derek cocks a brow. "Yes."

"You _kissed_ me." Stiles repeats, as if it hadn't happened. "Oh my gosh, it's the drugs, I knew it--"

Before Stiles can continue his sentence, Derek's lips are once again locked onto Stiles', his hands trailing down his body and towards the small of his back.

"W-wait wait wait wait---" Stiles breathes, taking in a lungful of air "It's--" he points to the clock, "They'll be home soon."

"So?" Derek asks, kissing along the side of Stiles' smooth jaw, enjoying the small shudder of pleasure he elicits when he does so.

"So--" Stiles bares his throat as Derek gently scrapes his teeth against his collarbone, "Not now."

Derek stops, heart dropping.

Stiles grins. "Tonight."

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Duuuude! What the hell guys? What did you do in here?" Scott exclaims, surveying the forgotten wreck in the room.

Derek and Stiles are sitting on the couch, ironically sipping cold hot chocolate. Without marshmallows.  

"An accident." Derek says, unfazed.

"Yup. What he said." Stiles adds feigning calmness, and presses his lips onto the mug, hoping to hide his blush.

"Why does it smell so...weird in here?" Scott asks, sticking his nose in the air, clearly lost.

The rest of the pack look at one another, giving each other knowing glances.

"Ha!" Erica smirks, her crimson lips curling into an unmistakably sly grin, and demandingly sticks out a hand, waggling her fingers. "You guys owe me 50 bucks." Her smile lengthens twofold.  "And _you_ , Isaac. You owe me _double_. Pay up." The mischievous glint in eyes her is definitely something Derek better start paying attention to.

Jackson groans in disgust. Scott looks terrified, realization finally dawning upon him a second too late, hitting him harder than the fact that he just lost a bet. Isaac woefully stares into his wallet with big puppy dog eyes. Boyd has already taken out the bills, and is currently grumbling about the sneakers he was saving up for as he hands Erica her prize.

"Boys, don't forget about me!" Allison chirps, beaming.

"And me," Lydia helpfully adds. “And don't you dare think that it's 50 altogether, because its 50 _each_."

"Aw, come on guys!" Stiles complains, rolling his eyes dramatically. "I should be worth more than that!"

"Sure you are. Why did we have this stupid bet again?" Jackson mutters grumpily to himself.

"Because," Erica replies, werewolf hearing not letting anything slip her ears, "you said that you were positively sure that Stiles would _not_ be able to snag Derek. And you guys decided that it'd be girls against boys, so your loss." The sly grin never leaves her face.

"Wow guys, way to give a guy confidence," Stiles complains, hand over his heart in mock hurt. "I'm wounded."

"Whatever." Jackson quickly gets over his loss. "It's only money," he says. As for Scott, the fact that he is losing money finally sinks in as he lets out a small whine. Isaac is about to melt into the floor in a puddle of depressed goo. Boyd empties out the rest of his wallet, shaking out every last coin until he can no longer hear the rattling of metal against metal.

Derek watches them, and lets out a little chuckle.

The pack stare at Derek, astonished, while they revel in the miracle.

It's the first time in _so long_ since Derek has laughed.  
  
"So, tell us Stiles." Erica cracks a playful grin, "How'd you worm your way into that cold heart of stone, hmm?"

The pack eyes him with curiosity.   
  
Stiles stares at the empty bowl on the coffee table, the mess on the floor, and then at the hole in the wall.  
  
"Well..."

It really wasn't half as bad as it looked.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Derek doesn't mind so much anymore being the one who always has to wait at the door. He doesn't mind being the watchdog, doesn't mind being the one to open the door, doesn't mind seeing their sated faces when they come back; Derek doesn't mind being alone for just a while--because he knows that when the rest of the pack leaves, he'll have Stiles all to himself, _all through the night._

Saturday nights are typical Derek and Stiles cuddling nights.

 


End file.
